


After-School Detention

by HandsomeManExpress (DangerousCommieSubversive)



Series: That One High School AU [1]
Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Detention, M/M, Sexual Harassment, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 11:49:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2506745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerousCommieSubversive/pseuds/HandsomeManExpress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brad isn't even <em>allowed</em> to be supervising detention. But Mr. Helmsley has a meeting to go to.</p><p>Unfortunately, this means being alone in a room with Dean Ambrose, who is <em>incredibly intimidating.</em></p><p>(And sort of hot.)</p><p>(Brad's not going there.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	After-School Detention

Mr. Helmsley is running after-school detention today.

Normally this wouldn't mean much to Brad. He's a _student_ teacher, he doesn't _have_ to do all the after school stuff. But his advisor says it'd be a good experience for him, and anyway it's not like he's doing anything today. So instead of getting in his awful little car and going back to his tiny apartment, he's standing outside the detention classroom, staring up at his mentor teacher and saying, “Wait, _what?_ ”

“Apparently some jackass started another rumor about Orton taking steroids.” Mr. Helmsley just looks frustrated. “So as the wrestling team's faculty advisor,  _I_ have to go talk to a bunch of parents about the school's drug policy.”

“... _is_ he taking steroids?”

“Yeah, probably. Kid's got issues. But he doesn't do it  _here,_ so I don't give a fuck.” Mr. Helmsley sighs. “Look, Brad, technically it's against policy to let you supervise detention without a certified teacher to supervise  _you,_ but it should only be half an hour, and there's only one kid today. You can do it.”

Brad nods anxiously. “Ok, Mr. Helmsley. Who's the one kid?”

“Eh. Dean again. He's in every few days.”

And the bottom drops out of Brad's stomach. “Dean...Ambrose?”

Mr. Helmsley's hand is heavy on his shoulder. “Don't let him intimidate you. Dean only  _talks_ a big game. Without his buddies around he's nothing to be scared of.”

 

–

 

Brad tries to start things off strong, so he walks into the classroom, drops his papers on the desk, and says, “Welcome to after-school detention, where we  _don't_ put our feet on the desks.”

Dean Ambrose looks up from where he's cleaning his fingernails with a pocket knife, drawls, “Hey,  _Brad,_ ” and  _slowly_ swings his booted feet down from his desk. “I didn't  _know_ lackeys were allowed to supervise  _dangerous at-risk youth._ ”

“That's  _Mr. Maddox,_ and if there  _was_ anyone dangerous in this room,  _then_ maybe I'd be concerned.” There. That's assertive, right? He's the teacher. He's in charge. He's not going to be intimidated by this  _kid_ .

The problem with student-teaching at a high school, though, is that the students aren't really that much younger than you. And the problem with student-teaching at the high school one town over from the one  _you_ went to is that half of your students already  _know_ you, at least by reputation. So Dean looks amused, but not even  _remotely_ cowed. “Whatever you say, teach.”

“Uh. Good. Now. Um. Do your homework.”

Dean rolls his eyes and goes back to cleaning his fingernails.

Feeling vaguely relieved, Brad turns to the dull but  _very safe_ task of grading history papers. It's eyecrossing, but  _someone_ has to do it, and Mr. Helmsley's made it damn clear that it's not going to be  _him._

Just as he's boggling at one student's suggestion that George Washingt o n gave the Gettysburg Address, Dean says, “Hey.  _Mr. Maddox._ ”

Brad looks up from the abysmal paper. “Yes, Dean?”

And Dean actually has his homework out on his desk. “You wanna read this paragraph over for me? Doesn't feel like it  _flows._ ”

Brad blinks. “Of course, Dean, I'd be happy to.” He gets up and goes over to Dean's desk.

What greets him, unfortunately, isn't an essay. Or rather, there's  _part_ of an essay, a couple of sentences, but the rest of the page is taken up with a series of obscene cartoons of...

He flushes. “Is that supposed to be  _me?_ ”

“I'm not really sure I captured your  _essence._ ” Dean grins insolently at him and blows a bubble. Where did he get  _gum?_ How hard  _has_ he worked on putting together this Fifties-greaser-from-Hell look? “You wanna give me some pointers?”

“That's not...not appropriate.” Brad grabs the paper, tears off the portion that actually has writing, and crumples the rest. “I'm s-sure you have actual homework to be doing.”

“Nad. Finished it all. What, you think I'm  _stupid?_ ” Another snap of the gum. “I don't get attention 'cause I'm a bad  _student,_ I get it 'cause I fuck  _around_ too much.”

Brad hurries back to his desk, throwing the cartoon in the trash as he goes. As he sits down and goes back to the paper he was grading, he feels himself blushing. He's heard stories about how much time Dean spends “fucking around.” According to rumor he's...very energetic.

A few minutes later, he hears Dean start singing quietly. “Oh boy, I just can't wait for history class...”

Brad knows the song. He doesn't like where this is going.

“Up at the chalkboard I just  _love_ your ass...”

He tries to shut his ears and not wonder about when Dean would have been listening to Ke$ha.

“Mr. Maddox...”

Before he can stop himself, he says, “ _Yes,_ Dean?”

Dean grins a shit-eating grin. “ _Iiiii_ wanna  _get_ with  _youuu..._ ” His singing is atrocious. “I'll tell  _everyone_ what we're  _gonna_ do, wanna get my  _hands_ in your  _khakiii—_ ”

_“Dean.”_

“Yeah,  _Mr. Maddox?_ ”

“Don't...don't  _sing._ Just.  _Silent_ detention. Read a book or something.”

Dean sniggers. “You don't like Kesha?”

Bright red, Brad buries himself in his work again.

Ten minutes pass in beautiful silence, and what is  _taking_ Mr. Helmsley so long? Detention's supposed to be an hour and a half, and if Brad has to spend that whole time in a room with Dean Ambrose and nobody else he's probably going to get kicked out of practicum for socking the little shit. Either that or Dean's going to kick his ass and he'll be a laughing stock.

Why did he decide that he wanted to teach  _high school?_ Couldn't he have gone with elementary education, where being twenty years old means he's  _ancient_ instead of “two years older than me and not so tough”? (Or for that matter, “two years older than me and thus an acceptable romantic prospect,” because if Dean's hitting on him he wouldn't be the  _first_ student to do so. Or. Well. There was  _one_ other student who hit on him. Probably.)

He needs to reevaluate his choices.

Just as he's reaching for the next horrible essay, his desk scrapes back, and Dean plants his denim-clad ass firmly on top of Brad's stack of papers. His feet come to rest on the edges of Brad's chair, bracketing Brad's thighs, so Brad is effectively trapped.

“How's it  _going,_ Brad?” in another lazy drawl. “Living the dream?”

“D-dean.” He's freaked out. He can't hide it now. Plus, with the way Dean's sitting now, it's  _really_ difficult to ignore the fact that he's apparently got a hard-on. “Go back to your desk.”

“View's better from  _here,_ though.” Dean's gaze rakes Brad up and down, lingering on his groin, his chest, his  _mouth._ “And anyway, I bet Seth and Rman I could get you to suck my dick. You like suckin' dick, right? I've heard stories.”

Brad's jaw drops. He wants to say something,  _anything,_ but nothing comes out.

“ _That's_ the spirit. Anyway, if I  _win_ , they gotta pay me twenty bucks.  _Plus,_ next time we've all got a night to ourselve, I get to  _film_ it.”

“I. Uh.  _No!_ ”

Dean grins. “Don't worry, doesn't gotta be  _today._ You being here now's just a nice  _surprise._ ”

Brad stares, shocked, and Dean licks his lips and blows another gum bubble and Brad suddenly has to suppress the mental image of what would happen if he said  _yes._ If Dean unzipped his jeans and Brad blew him right here in the classroom.

It's a much more attractive thought than he would have expected.

He says, weakly, “You're going to make me lose my scholarship. And get me fired. And arrested.”

“Being arrested ain't so bad. My dad's a cop, I'd make him letcha go. Dunno about your  _scholarship,_ though.”  Dean looks  _way_ too entertained.

“Are you  _sure_ you don't have. Um.  _Any_ homework to do?”

Dean blinks, grins even wider, and then clasps his hands under his chin and puts on a breathy, mocking falsetto.  _“Oh, Mr._ _**Maddox,** _ _ isn't there  _ _**anything** _ _ I could do for extra credit?” _

“Dean.” Brad's not considering it. He's  _ not. _ He is in  _ no way _ thinking about doing something that'd get him blackballed as an educator for  _ life. _ He doesn't find Dean even  _ slightly _ attractive.

“Like I said, no rush.” But Dean's leaning in closer, reaching forward, and Brad's starting to lean towards  _ him, _ and—Dean grabs his tie. “This thing's  _ nice. _ What is this fucker, silk? Did your daddy buy it for you?”

He wraps the necktie around his hand, tugging Brad forward.

“You keep starin' at me like that and I'll fuckin'  _ choke _ you with it,  _ Brad. _ ”

Brad's eyes go wide.

“Or maybe,” and Dean's voice drops  _ very _ low, “maybe I'll just tie you over my desk with it while I'm fucking you.”

Brad says, breathlessly,  _ “Dean...” _

The classroom door opens. A soft, accented voice says, “Oh, for  _ Christ's _ sake, Ambrose, I put you in detention to keep you  _ out _ of trouble, not get you into  _ more. _ ”

Dean lets go of Brad's tie and looks up with a cheeky grin. “No trouble, Mr. Regal. Brad and I were just chatting.”

Mr. Regal  _ looks _ at him. “Go home, Ambrose. I'm sure you have more productive things to be doing.”

“But I got  _ detention. _ ”

“At this point, young man, I think you may be beyond rehabilitation. Bradley, I'd like a word with you.”

Dean gathers his things and slouches out, while Brad fixes his tie. His papers, luckily, aren't too mussed, although he's not sure his  _ hair _ will ever recover. “What did you want to talk to me about, Mr. Regal?”

Mr. Regal shrugs. “Nothing, really. I just didn't want Dean cornering you in the hall as soon as you left.”

“Oh.” Brad hadn't considered that.

Would that be so bad?

_ Nope. _ Not going there. “Thank you.”

“What was he threatening you with today?”

“Uh...”

“Oh, never mind, I imagine it was one of his usuals.” Regal rolls his eyes. “I can't  _ imagine _ what Hunter was thinking, leaving you two alone.”

Brad suppresses a sigh of relief. “Me neither.”

“Anyway, go home, I'll make your excuses to Hunter.” Regal glances over the top essay on Brad's stack. “In any case, it looks like you have your work cut out for you. Some people wouldn't know what to do with a comma if it kneed them in the face.”

Brad stammers another thank-you, gathers his things, and hurries out to his car.

He tries not to look for Dean Ambrose.

 


End file.
